Mercy
by WriteOnForever
Summary: This was prison. There was no mercy.


So this idea came into my head after _Terrors_, but I've been too scared to actually publish. Obviously, the other inmates are going to be less than pleased that Junior completely screwed up the break, and, well, we all know what happens in prison.

High T for rape of a minor and a few bad words.

Mercy

Icicle crossed his arms tightly over his chest, his usual sneer on his face and his dark brown eyes narrowed into a glare.

There was nothing to hint that he was panicking.

It was the night of the failed breakout, and anger and contempt clogged the air, threatening to suffocate them all. Junior—stupid, naïve Junior—was the subject of the rage. It didn't matter that none of them had known that the Terror Twins were heroes undercover. It didn't matter that even if they had managed to escape, they probably would've been recaptured and sent back anyway. It didn't matter that Strange was actually on their side. And it certainly didn't matter that _Icicle_ had been the one to involve Tommy Terror in the first place, had been the one to pair the two of them together. No, Icicle had solidified his reputation; the blame would not fall on him.

His son was an entirely different matter.

He was weak. Inexperienced. Bottom of the food chain. A "low-risk criminal," as the Justice League would classify him.

And he had to be punished.

Sure, bruises littered his body, mockingly obvious against his pale skin; he'd taken a solid two-hour beating once the heroes had done the clean-up work.

But it wasn't enough.

That was why the group of inmates and guards was waiting for him next to one of the empty cells.

Shifting a bit, Icicle scanned the group of men, his stomach tightening as his eyes settled on each one. When he found Brick, he glared, furious that the man who'd known his son for years would do this. The fellow Star City villain stared right back, clearly asking _why _he was going to let this happen.

Icicle looked away first.

His position as capo had taken a hit, and he needed to prove that he still deserved that position. He needed to prove that he was the most ruthless of them all.

So he sacrificed his son.

He hadn't offered him, but when the others had proposed this punishment, he hadn't said no. And when they told him he should be there, it wasn't because they thought Junior would need some sort of comfort. It was a test. One he could not fail.

Footsteps brought his attention to reality. Junior, trailed closely by one guard, limped painfully down the empty corridor, hands shoved into his pockets, body shaking ever-so-slightly.

And a wave of relief found Icicle because Junior _knew_ what was going to happen.

But then that wave turned harsh and bitter and dragged him under because the teenager asked softly, "Another beat-down?"

He had no idea.

Not even when Wilcox opened the cell and dragged him inside, or when the other six crammed in after, or when Ojo muttered darkly, "Hello, Junior."

And in the span of mere seconds, between the initiation and the actual attack, Icicle forced himself from the scene, from the group circling Junior and those bright, unnaturally ice-blue eyes widening in recognition and fear and _hopelessness_, to sit down with his back to the wall. Somewhere from the darkest region of his mind, the minuscule part not tainted with the incessant drive for power, crawled a memory of a biblical story, the one where the angel stopped the man from killing his son. The angel of mercy.

But this was prison. There was no mercy.

Junior screamed over and over and _over_ the word no, and from what Icicle could tell, he was fighting.

But it was seven against one, and all too soon those fighting sounds were replaced by weak _no_'s and the tearing of uniforms. They, too, morphed into grunts of pleasure, and whimpering, and laughter, of human flesh on flesh and primordial passion.

He knew when they transitioned. An unearthly, unbearable silence settled, only to be ended by the grunts, the murmurs, the occasional slap or yelp of pain.

The rhythm was broken by "NO!" and what sounded like a jaw breaking. Another fight, this one much shorter than the first. And only when he heard a sucking sound, followed by gasping retching and mocking catcalls, did Icicle know why Junior had again tried to defend himself.

They left the cell, one by one, after what felt like hours. Icicle stared through them, the scowl on his face and his eyes narrowed because he couldn't let them see anything else.

His position had been secured.

At a cost.

He was a murderer, a thief, a psychopath. He was evil, cruel, sadistic.

But he was also a father.

An awful one, yes, but for all his mistreatment of Junior, he still, on some level, loved him, or, at least, didn't resent him as much as he could have.

He needed to see his son.

Nodding toward Junior's guard, guilty of the same grime as he, Icicle stood and pushed the bars aside.

Curled in the corner, wearing only the undershirt and boxers, Junior had his head buried in his hands. Upon hearing the door, he looked up and spat, "What, you perverts didn't get eno—" Eyes widening, he pressed himself tighter into the wall, whimpering, "No, please, no."

It took Icicle a second to understand, but when it sunk in, he quickly replied, "I'm not. It's…It's over."

There was an uncomfortable pause, then he muttered, "Are you okay?"

Snorting, the teen said, "Just got gang raped. Couldn't feel any better."

"I would have stopped it if I could have."

And part of him hoped his son called him out on it because he could've done _something_, but all he got was a genuine, "I know, Dad."

"You should go the infirmary," he offered lamely, sitting next to him. Only then did he notice the dry blood covering the inside of his son's legs.

Shaking his head, he responded, "I need a shower. And not one of those crap five minute showers either." His voice broke. "A real one."

"Okay."

More silence. "Are they…are they going to do this again?" His voice hitched, and he took a deep, shaky breath.

"No. This…this was the only time. I promise."

And he winced because he remembered his previous promise, when he _swore _that if Junior got sent to prison, he'd be safeguarded from becoming the bitch. So he waited for the anger, the fury, the hatred, but all he got was a weak nod.

After a moment, the teen pulled his knees to his chest and wrapped his arms around his legs. He suddenly looked so young, so broken, a porcelain doll shattered one too many times and poorly pieced back together. And they just sat next to each other for the longest time until Icicle couldn't take it anymore and muttered quietly, "Get up."

Junior glanced at him cautiously.

"You said you wanted to shower, right? Besides, sitting here isn't going to make anything better."

There was a harshness he didn't intend, but he was never really good at this whole parenting thing anyway.

As Junior silently obeyed, grimacing as he got to his feet, Icicle walked to the guard and commanded, "Let him shower for as long as he needs. Get him clean clothes. Don't say anything about what happened." Contemplating for a moment, he continued, "And if you think of trying anything with him—"

"You'll do to me what you did with the others?" he interrupted, the words heavily laced with contempt and disgust.

Before he could response—not that he had anything to respond with—Junior came toward them, limping even worse than before.

"C'mon, kid," the guard murmured gently.

And it was funny, in a dark, humorless kind of way, that this stranger could sound gentler than Icicle ever could. And maybe it was this impetus, or the previous discussion, or the emergence of a long-buried paternal instinct, that prompted him to place his hand on his son's shoulder and whisper, "You're going to be okay, Cameron."

Because _Junior_ hadn't been raped; _Cameron_, who was just seventeen and too damn good to be a villain, had been raped.

And maybe it sounded like a meaningless sentence to anyone else, but Cameron understood perfectly. He was being permitted to be vulnerable. Damaged. Human.

Icicle turned away just as his son's eyes welled with tears and made his way back to his cell. Because he could free his son from the obligation of being strong, but he couldn't stand to see him cry, to see him struggle just to walk, to see the blood, to see the glue come apart and the pieces come crashing down.

And as he walked, he wondered if, beyond the dark grey walls and the inhumanity, far away from here, there was an angel.

One of compassion and gentleness and love. Of mercy.

One that would save his son.

One that would save him.

Icicle may have come out a little OOC, but here's my thinking: although he obviously cares more about his reputation than his son, he still has to care for him a little. I mean, he gave him his name and involved him in the break. So he doesn't care enough to save him, but he's got the decency to feel bad. Makes sense? A little?

Please review!


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